by Caitlin Waltz
“The color shrieked.” -Edvard Munch
I walk along a bridge with no beginning and no end,
the sunset reflected in the faded streaks of
color in the chestnut wood, a threatening
darkness seeping in from the edges. Two
friends by my side are as oblivious
to the oncoming storm as the two
ships stationed in the fjord below.
I stop.
My friends abandon me,
their shapes now shadows in the distance.
The sky slices the clouds; the blood
from their wounds smearing across
the sky and mixing with the
orange pigments of the setting sun.
The silent shiver that runs down my spine
creates dark mountains beyond the fjord,
beyond the almost indistinguishable town.
Everything shifts — the sky, the mountains, the water, the land cry
out to me as they are yanked towards the town.
My body stretches and I grab my ears as I, too, am
forced into the flow of the landscape.
We scream.
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